Drunken Words are Sober Thoughts
by literallyjohnwatson
Summary: John comes back from the bar after a few too many, which means Sherlock gets to play babysitter. Pretty fluffy, I considered it pretty platonic when writing it, but interpret it however you like : . Based on an uncompleted omegle RP.


John fumbled around clumsily in his pocket for his mobile, the alcohol already clouding his senses. He was going to have a problem unlocking the door. Maybe, if he was lucky, Sherlock would have enough energy to walk across the flat and make sure the door was unlocked for him.

Maybe.

After finally managing to extract his mobile from his pocket, he was able to formulate a crude text to Sherlock. He probably could have lessened the number of errors in it if he really concentrated, but he wasn't in a concentrating mood.

He was satisfied with: _sherlockk leave th door unlcokced i'm a little tipsy hahh –JW_

He knew Sherlock wouldn't be pleased with his drinking, but he wasn't in a mood to care about that either. He could almost hear Sherlock taunting him, _"The drinking must run in the family…"_

This was different. Harry really had a problem. John was just out with Lestrade and a few other from the yard celebrating a particularly difficult case that had just reached its resolution. He knew he wasn't like his sister, who used alcohol to drown out everything else in her life.

He barely had time to dote on his thoughts before his phone buzzed to life beneath his hand with a reply from Sherlock.

_Again? How many times must I tell you to stop drinking with Lestrade? –SH_

John laughed to himself and elbowed Lestrade to show him Sherlock's reply. He clumsily answered.

_maybee you should come withuss then! We are celbrating you solving a case afterall! –JW_

_No. Don't think so. I'll leave the door open so you can stumble in. –SH_

Typical Sherlock.

_youu can be sch a downer! i'm taking a cab, I shoudl be home soon –JW_

_Fantastic. Can't wait. - SH_

John exited the bar and hailed a cab to take him back to Baker Street. When the cab rolled up to 221B, John unceremoniously exited the cab, paid the driver, and loped up the steps to his flat, swaying slightly. He chuckled to himself, swung the door open, and jeered rather obnoxiously, "Ssssssssherlock, I'm back!"

"Yes John, I could tell by the way you were stomping up the stairs like an elephant," Sherlock retorted curtly, standing up from one of his experiments on the table to take a look at John. He was flushed and bedraggled from the drinking, and Sherlock rolled his eyes at him.

"You look ridiculous. Go sit down. I'll bring you some water so you can sober up." He strolled into the kitchen to retrieve a glass.

"You look ridiculous, with your cheekbonesss and your sssscarf!" John taunted back, laughing like what he just said was the cleverest response anyone could think of. He tried to follow Sherlock into the kitchen to goad him some more, but found that he was quite wobbly. He tottered over to his armchair, almost toppling over once.

"Whoah- yesss, I'll just sit here for a bit," he mumbled, steadying himself in the chair.

Sherlock gave him an exasperated look and rolled his eyes at him from the kitchen. It was so annoying when John got like this. Sherlock ended up having to take care of him, and if there was one thing he hated it was waiting on other people. He handed the glass off to John and sat down opposite him.

"How much did you drink?"

John took a large swig of the water before answering. "Wha- I didn't- not that much. Thanks for this water-," he cut himself off as he brandished the glass a little too enthusiastically, spilling some of its contents down his front.

"Whoopssssss ahaha, maybe I had a just little too much," John snickered, continuing to drink from his glass, not paying too much attention to his now damp jumper.

"Understatement," Sherlock muttered brusquely, rolling his eyes a second time when John slopped even more water from his glass. "Drink the rest of it."

After John did, he managed to haul him to his feet and guide him towards the stairs to his room. The sooner he got John into bed, the better.

John tried to focus on putting one foot in front of the other. He couldn't help but laugh to himself at the thought that he was going to have to make it up the stairs. In his disoriented state, he was hopelessly thankful for Sherlock's presence. It was almost comical, really. John always had to do simple things for Sherlock that he could easily do himself—clean up his messes, do the shopping, etc.— but now John needed him to just make it to his room. He felt vulnerable, but of course he trusted Sherlock. He couldn't imagine that Sherlock would be willing to do this for hardly anyone else. Or maybe it was just that Sherlock wanted him out of his hair as soon as possible. He could sense that his flatmate was thoroughly annoyed.

"Jesusssss, Ssssherlock, I'm sssorry. I didn't—I really didn't think I was this drunk," he slurred, still leaning on Sherlock for support.

"Yes, well…" Sherlock muttered, keeping John upright so he wouldn't sway or pass out on the stairs, "boys will be boys and all that rubbish." He glanced over and John and couldn't help but feel a bit amused with him. He really was quite ridiculous when drunk.

Through some kind of miracle, they managed to make it up the stairs to John's bedroom. Sherlock lead him over to his bed and let the man flop down in it. He sighed, and promptly and professionally started stripping off John's wet jumper so he could at least sleep comfortably.

"Ssssssssherlock, are you trying to take advantage of me?" John teased, falling into a fit of giggles that didn't subside for several minutes. Sherlock cocked and eyebrow, and his lips finally quirked in a bit of amusement.

"Hardly. You spilled water all over yourself. It wouldn't be very kind for me to let you sleep like that."

After John was able to compose himself, he looked at Sherlock and said, as seriously as he could manage, "Honestly though, Sherlock, thankssss for helping me. I—I'm really drunk, I don't know what I'm doing." He barely managed to get through the end of the last sentence before his giggles started up again.

"It's fine John, really. You'd do the same for me. Lay back on the pillows," Sherlock replied passively.

John obliged. His head was swimming and keeping his head up was becoming a chore.

"Sssherlock, come here," he slurred, beckoning Sherlock closer. He then did something that either of them weren't really expecting. He pulled him into a hug. He hugged Sherlock Holmes. John wasn't the most physically affectionate person, and especially not with Sherlock of all people. The pair didn't often breach each other's personal space, but the alcohol had different ideas.

Sherlock grunted slightly as he was pulled into the hug. Blinking, he frowned at the man but remained tolerant because John was not currently in a prime mental state.

"Ssseriously Sherlock, what would I do without you?" John pondered while Sherlock awkwardly patted his shoulder and allowed John to hug him.

"I assure you, I've no idea. You'd probably be just fine without me." It was the other way around that Sherlock didn't like to think about. He was entirely too dependent upon John these days. And not just to pick up milk from the store. He wasn't used to having someone around who he could depend on, someone he could trust and confide in, someone who genuinely enjoyed being around him. All his life people had rejected him, but John had accepted him, faults and all, without question. He was used to being alone until John had come along. Finding John was like finding something he didn't realize he needed desperately until he had it. He tried not to think about what it would be like if John disappeared from his life for some reason; now that he had a taste, he wasn't sure if he could ever go back.

Sherlock's musings where interrupted by John's laughter. "What would people say if they could ssssee us right now, huh? Wha-," he stopped to giggle some more. "N-no Sherlock, I'd be alone with a cane that I didn't even need."

Sherlock pulled away from John's clumsy embrace, his eyes glassed over in thought. He had never once stopped to think that John might actually need him as much as Sherlock needed John. He didn't understand what he, Sherlock, might have to offer that John could possibly want or need. Sure, he just dragged the man upstairs to his bedroom and practically tucked him in, but mostly anyone would or could do that. Sherlock knew he was difficult, insensitive, and alright, a bit of a dick—what part of that was special to John?

The prospect honestly frightened him. He had never existed in a symbiotic relationship like this before. He felt as if he had unknowingly given a bit of himself to John. He felt vulnerable and exposed, although there wasn't a person in this world that he trusted more than John H. Watson. Even with this in mind, he couldn't stamp out the small speck of doubt brewing in the back of his brain. He knew how cruel people could be, how selfish. He knew himself to be these things as well. He was cold, calculating Sherlock Holmes. Why would John want or need to keep him in his life? What if one day he decided he didn't need him?

John seemed to take notice of Sherlock's distinctive thinking face as he half-whispered, still giggling, "Sssssherlock, how—what're you deducing?"

"Nothing of importance to you at the moment. Go the sleep. The faster you get some rest, the fast I get to tend to your hangover in the morning," he replied off-handedly, still wrapped up in his thoughts. He threw the blanket on John's bed over him and turned to leave the room. He was about to switch off the light and make his way back downstairs when he heard John stir once more.

"Sherlock…"

"John," the irritation was clear in his voice. He had almost made it home free.

"I love you, Sherlock."

Sherlock froze, and he felt a lump form in his throat. Surely John didn't know what he was saying, it was just the alcohol talking, right? But drunken words were sober thoughts more often than not, and even Sherlock knew that. This is what Sherlock feared the most. Cold hard proof that he of all people was important to someone else on this planet. It was terrifying, especially for him. How was he supposed to live up to that? He had lived his own life striving to satisfy nobody's needs but his own. In what sense of the word did John even mean it in, anyhow? Personal relationships were one of the things that Sherlock was hopelessly ignorant about. Regardless of what John was implying, before he could stop himself or even figure out what he was feeling, he felt the words forming on his lips.

"I love you too, John."

And with that Sherlock shut off the light, closed the door, and strode soundlessly down the stairs. He sat in his armchair with his hands clasped together and pressed to his chin, thinking. What in the hell did he just say? He was fairly sure he hadn't said those words to anyone in a very long time, the only other time being to his mother when he was very, very young. He wasn't even sure he fully understood love. Did he love John? The answer he supposed was actually yes, in one way or another. John was a person he trusted, honestly with every fiber of his being, who accepted him and all his faults without question, and was just generally there, for whatever reason Sherlock might need him. Did that constitute love? Maybe, but the fact that Sherlock was having a hard time picturing his life without John probably did. Still, it seemed horribly dangerous to let John know that.

With any luck, John wouldn't remember any of this and Sherlock wouldn't have to deal with it in the morning.


End file.
